The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(32)

The waitress delivered their food but Reacher didn’t start to eat right away. He was thinking. A woman who had been in contact with Rutherford had been kidnapped and murdered. A group had tried to kidnap Rutherford. A group with a track record of torture and dismemberment and dumping bodies in suitcases, if the guy Marty was to be believed. Reacher was liking the situation less and less.

‘Rusty, I appreciate you coming back to bail me out this morning,’ he said, when they had both finished eating. ‘Even though I’d already gotten out. I was on my way out of town when some guys tried to ambush me. Four of the guys from yesterday. I think they’re the same people who killed the journalist. You need to take this seriously. Very seriously, or the next story in the paper will be about parts of your body being found in a bunch of different places. You should leave town. Right now. Don’t even go back to your apartment.’

‘Leave town? And go where? And come back when? And do what in the meantime?’ Rutherford wiped his face with his napkin. ‘If it’s true that the people who were after me killed the journalist, that’s pretty heavy action for a town this size. They must be from somewhere else. And if they can reach me here, they can reach me anywhere. What if I leave and wind up someplace I don’t know my way around, where it’s easier for them to catch me? So no. I’m going to stay. And I’m going to fight.’

‘Do you know how to fight?’ Reacher said.

‘No. But you do. You’ve done OK against these guys so far.’

‘Rusty, I’ve been happy to help. But I’m not going to be here for ever.’

‘Don’t go just yet. Please. Stay a while. I’ll pay you. I have savings.’

‘I don’t need money. And I wouldn’t take your savings anyway.’

‘OK then. Forget money. I’ll pay by teaching you about computers. Help you get into the twenty-first century. Or the twentieth, anyway. Or at least to use a cell phone.’

Rutherford had a point about there being no guarantee of his safety if he ran. And it wasn’t safe for him to stay, either. Not on his own. Not with federal agents who walked away from their promises to protect him. And not with people like Marty on the lookout, under orders to report his whereabouts.

‘What if I stay?’ Reacher said. ‘For a day or two. And in return, you don’t teach me anything about computers?’

‘It’s a deal.’ Rutherford held out his hand. ‘What do we do now? Stay out of sight? Hope they don’t try again?’

‘No,’ Reacher said. ‘We go on the offensive. Tell me, what time does the doorman in your building go off shift?’

‘He said he pulled a double today. He’ll be there till ten tonight.’

‘Good. There are some preparations we need to make. But first there’s a visit I want to pay. Grab your phone. Call up the telephone directory. There’s an address I need you to find.’





TEN





Reacher had heard stories over the years about people coming home, drunk or stoned, and going into the wrong house. Sometimes they were found there later, asleep in a bed or passed out on the floor. Sometimes they got shot by the home’s rightful owner. Sometimes they did the shooting, thinking their own home had been invaded. Reacher had heard plenty of excuses over the course of his career. The idea of a mistaken address was one he’d always found hard to swallow. That changed when he arrived in Holly’s neighbourhood.

He could picture it freshly built. Two miles west of town. One squat rectangular house after another. One rectangular lot after another. All on a succession of right-angle streets. All carved out of the surrounding fields by the flood of money flowing around the state in a wave of postwar development. It would have been easy to mistake one for another when they were freshly minted. Approaching the wrong one would still be a straightforward mistake to make despite the minor variations that had crept in over time. There was a newer roof here, less bleached after fewer years in the ferocious Tennessee sun. An extension there, defying the neighbours’ uniform contours. Some houses had fresher paint. Some had greener lawns. And others had owners who’d abandoned their attempts at decorating and gardening altogether.

Reacher walked up the path leading to the house next to Holly’s, but he wasn’t making a mistake. It was a deliberate move. Because of Holly’s front door. She had the worst kind, from a cop’s perspective. It had no windows so you couldn’t see in from the outside. There was a peephole so anyone on the inside could see out. And it was made out of wood panels. They were thin. Useless for security. They could be kicked through in a second. About as far from a boulder rolled across the entrance to a cave as you could get. But that kind of door did have one advantage for anyone defending the premises. Easy as it would be to open, there’d be no need. They could fire right through it. A shotgun would be the best bet. Not that Reacher expected a waitress to be lurking in the hallway with a full load of double aught. But it’s what you don’t expect that gets you killed.

There was no answer at the neighbour’s door. Reacher rang the bell again and waited. He allowed time for the demands of old legs or young babies. Then when he was reasonably certain the house was unoccupied he made his way down the side of the garage. He selected a section of fence which wasn’t overlooked and where the wood seemed at its strongest and vaulted over into Holly’s back yard.